


The World We Wanted

by delires



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom asks Eames to forge Mal. Eames is more than happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World We Wanted

\- 1 -

Eames flicks his wrist over and stares at his watch.

Dom’s living room is very quiet. The curtains are still open, even though it is growing dark outside, and Eames can see his own reflection in the long windows, sitting tense in the armchair, one leg bent, foot propped up on his knee.

Surely, Dom is drawing things out on purpose now. If he wants to back out, that’s his business, but Eames can’t be arsed with waiting around for nothing.

The stairs are wooden, uncarpeted like much of the house, and they creak gently as Eames climbs them. Down the hall, light spills from an open doorway. Eames approaches it, leans one shoulder against the doorframe. Inside, Dom is perched on the edge of James’s bed, his long legs stretched awkwardly along the short mattress. James’s little face is barely visible behind the open book in Dom’s hand. He stares at the pages, rapt, as his father’s voice, low and hypnotic, slides over the rhymes.

“ _Then all around from far across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are._ _But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go- we’ll eat you up- we love you so!’ And Max said, ‘No!’_ ”

The words are familiar. They spark memories in Eames’s mind of being curled up on a sofa in front of an electric fire, his bony knees digging into the ample curve of his mother’s hip, as he tried to squirm closer and look the wild things right in their yellow eyes.

“ _The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye._ ”

The soft lamplight of James’s room smoothes the lines of Dom’s face and the shadows help to define the strong tendons of his arms, which are sleek beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Dom does not glance up or try to catch Eames’s eye, so Eames steps away from the doorway, slouching against the opposite wall until Dom is pulling James’s door shut behind him, and then Phillippa’s after that, leaning in to tell her, “Lights out, sweetheart.”

Only then does Eames push away from the wall, hands still in his pockets and raise his eyebrows.

“It isn’t too late to change your mind, you know,” he says. “I wouldn’t think less of you.”

“No. Let’s get on with it.”

Dom’s expression is hidden by the hallway gloom. He brushes past and starts to lead the way back down the stairs, to the living room, where the PASIV will be waiting for them, with its IV lines stretched out like reaching tentacles.

 

 

\- 2 -

The bar is generic, all-American. There is a basketball game showing on a TV in the corner and illuminated Budweiser and Coors signs adding splashes of colour. Dom is there waiting when Eames arrives, hunched over an empty glass. He does not look like a man who has recently had his life returned to him, but rather somebody who is still on the run. Eames carries a gin and tonic over from the bar and slides into the booth beside him.

Dom’s eyes are on the melting ice cubes at the bottom of his glass when he says, “I’d pay you, if you were even willing to do it at all. But, of course you’d need some time to think it through.”

Eames thumbs at his bottom lip. He gestures to the glass, which Dom is still clutching.

“Do you want another of those?”

“I won’t. I have to drive.”

It is still early, so the bar is quiet save for the hum of the televised basketball crowd. The surge and ebb of their cheering sounds far away, reaching the booth across a sea of empty air. Eames leans forwards, one arm resting on the sticky tabletop.

“Alright. Theoretically, I know her well enough to do it. I know that side of her well enough,” Eames says, thinking of the creamy stretch of Mal’s lovely thighs. Dom’s fingers tighten around his glass.

“That’s the reason I asked you, rather than somebody else.”

“And because you’d be too embarrassed to ask anyone other than me,” Eames says, with a half-hearted smirk.

Across the bar a door swings open, and a couple enter. His arm is around her waist, steadying her in her teetering heels and she has her head thrown back in laughter. The sound of it cuts through the quiet. Dom is distracted by them and his eyes follow them as they make their way to the bar. Eames clears his throat, to get Dom’s attention.

“Clearly, I’m not going to ask you any of the awkward questions, about sanity or morality.”

Dom looks at him, and a muscle in his cheek twitches minutely.

“But you’ll give it consideration.”

“I’ll consider it, of course I will.”

There is an awkward moment where neither of them speaks. At the bar, the woman is giggling and not for the first time, Eames finds himself considering the cupids-bow curves of Dom’s mouth with a little too much intensity.

Dom looks at his watch and then pulls out his wallet. “I want to be home in time to put the kids to bed. Your drink’s on me.”

“That’s touching.” Eames lifts his glass to his lips, needing the sting of gin, as Dom stands up and lays the money on the table. When Eames reaches for it, Dom’s hand closes around his wrist.

“You breathe a word of this to Arthur and we can forget the whole fucking thing.”

Despite the seriousness of Dom’s tone, Eames cannot help but laugh.

“I know what I said about the awkward questions, but are you actually insane? Arthur would gun me down if he knew we were even discussing this.”

This makes the corner of Dom’s mouth lift, just a little. Not a smile, but getting there.

*

Eames finishes his drink and then heads straight home.

He turns his key in the lock and stamps his feet on the doormat, even though all day he has done nothing besides go back and forth between his car and air-conditioned buildings with polished floors. In this part of Los Angeles, the closest you get to the grimy damp of London streets is the occasional chlorinated puddle of poolside splash.

“Hi!” Arthur calls, from down the hall, and Eames follows the smell of tomatoes into the kitchen, where Arthur is standing by the stove, glass of wine in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. He turns his cheek to Eames for a kiss. “I’ve made this kind of hot today. It’s going to blow your head off.”

“I’m sure I’ll cope.” Eames brushes his lips carelessly over Arthur’s cheekbone and plucks a brittle strand of dried spaghetti out of the pan.

“I got this email about a job in Cairo,” Arthur says. “You want to come? I don’t think I’ll ask Dom.”

“Why not? He could probably do with the work.”

Arthur snorts, poking at the bubbling sauce with his wooden spoon.

“Could do with the rest, you mean.”

 “If I’d meant that, I would have said that.”

The wine bottle is still on the counter, so Eames takes the opportunity to pour himself a glass. A shot of gin is hardly enough for a decent buzz.

“He’s been getting worse again lately, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Arthur turns, with one hand cupped beneath the dripping wooden spoon, offering it to Eames.

“Taste this,” he says.

*

Later, Eames is thrusting his hips upwards, driving his dick into the tight heat of Arthur’s body as Arthur pants, thighs flexing deliciously, one arm braced against the top of the bed frame. His eyes are closed and he has that little wrinkle between his eyebrows which means that he is concentrating hard. Eames doesn’t mind that wrinkle when what Arthur is concentrating on is riding each of Eames’s thrusts just so. He runs his hands up over Arthur’s hips, pressing with his fingers, holding onto them through their up and down motions.

With hardly a tremor in his voice, Arthur says, “Are you coming then?”

Eames has to swallow before saying, “I’m close. Just...” – Arthur shifts his hips – “that’s it. Like that.”

“No. To Cairo. Are you coming to Cairo?”

Incredulous, Eames stares up at Arthur, at his closed eyes and the wrinkle in his forehead. “Are you thinking about work?”

“I’m always thinking about work. Say that you’ll come.”

“Darling, can’t this...this can wait.”

Without warning, Arthur stops moving completely. His eyes are open now and his knees are locked, preventing Eames from canting upwards. He reaches down to hold Eames’s wrists too, to really make himself clear.

“Arthur. Jesus,” Eames says, teeth gritted.

Arthur looms over him, flushed and beautiful, and even has the gall to smirk a little as he says, “I will come to Cairo with you, Arthur. And I will work my ass off there to make you proud.”

Eames wants to punch him in the mouth, but at that moment, Arthur clenches his muscles around Eames’s dick, and Eames groans, writhing beneath him.

“Fucking yes, I’ll come to Cairo, you bastard,” he gasps and then throws his head back against the pillows as Arthur starts to move again.

*

Afterwards, while Arthur is showering, Eames lies in their bed and stares up at the ceiling. He can still hear the water running from the bathroom when he reaches for his phone and opens a blank message to Dom.

_I’ve thought about it enough. I’m game if you still are. No questions._

 

\- 3 -

There are touches of Mal everywhere in Dom’s house. Her books are on the shelves, well-thumbed and well-loved, their spines cracked and battered. The throw over the sofa is the same one which Mal used to wrap herself in on summer evenings, when she and Eames would sit outside on the grass in the quad, passing the wine bottle and the cigarettes between them as they talked politics.

The house still seems to smell faintly of her. Eames is surprised that Dom has not lost his mind living here.

“I thought I’d give us five,” Dom says, as he settles himself down beside the PASIV, and pulls a line towards him. Eames joins him on the floor, rolling up one sleeve.

“Make it ten. We can kick ourselves out when we’re ready.”

Dom hesitates. And then he sets the timer for fifteen minutes.

 

\- 4 -

Arthur is a nice little package, just the right balance of forceful and submissive. When he is in the mood, he can cook a mean lasagne. He is smart enough to make conversation stimulating. He has a tight arse and is bendy as hell.  

There is a seven year age gap between them. On paper, this is nothing. But it makes Arthur younger than Eames’s baby sister. It makes him too young to really remember watching the Berlin Wall be torn down on TV, or to appreciate the true beauty of Oasis.

Sometimes, Eames just wants to wring his neck.

It doesn’t help matters when Arthur is dressed down, balancing his chair on its back legs and slurping the froth from the top of his cappuccino. At times like this, Eames catches people giving him strange looks, as though uncertain what to make of a grown man hanging out with someone who could still pass for a sixth former.

“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur asks, licking foam from his top lip.

“Sometimes being with you makes me feel a bit like a dirty old man,” Eames says, honestly, as he stirs his coffee.

Arthur laughs and the front two legs of his chair hit the floor with a clunk.

“Is that something you want to role-play? I wouldn’t judge you if it was. I could handle it.” 

He is clearly in a sporting mood, playing up to the suggestion, all coy smirk and flickering lashes. Eames rubs a hand over his jaw, feels the five o’clock shadow there.

“No,” he says, and catches the eye of a passing woman, who is leaving the coffee shop with a sleeping toddler cradled in her arms. “I’m just- I just wonder what other people think of us.”

“I’m not that much younger than you.”

“You seem it, though. Sometimes.”

Eames is watching the passage of the same woman, as she carries her child out of the door and past the windows, when he feels Arthur’s smooth fingertips against his face, turning it. And then Arthur is leaning across the table and kissing him, his tongue bitter with the taste of coffee.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Arthur says, and when he pulls away, people are most definitely staring.

 

\- 5 -

The sand is silky-soft between Eames’s toes, and sugar-white. It is evening and the sun is dull red, low in the sky. The beach still holds some of the day’s lingering heat. The tide is out, waves crashing towards the horizon.

Already, Eames can feel the echoes of old love here, charging the air like static. It makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up in a way that is unfamiliar, though not unpleasant.

Dom is sitting a few feet away, wearing a loose cotton shirt, which catches the breeze. His face is calm, and handsome. Eames curls his manicured nails into his long skirt and lifts it, the hem fluttering at his ankles. He walks slowly across the sand, mimicking Mal’s graceful gait, the long, easy strides, the careless swing of her hips.

A gust of wind tosses dark curls back from Eames’s face as he kneels behind Dom and slides his fingers to cover Dom’s eyes. At the touch, Dom’s cheeks stretch into a smile. He lifts a hand to brush against Eames’s slender wrist, but he does not try to free himself, so Eames leans closer, breasts nudging against Dom’s shoulder blades. He puts his mouth to Dom’s ear and in the music of Mal’s voice says, “As I was young and easy, at the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying...” - Dom’s fingers squeeze his wrist gently. Eames leans to the opposite side and puts his lips against Dom’s other ear - “...Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of Dom’s jaw and then moves his hands, so that Dom can turn and see him. His hand finds its way to Eames’s thigh, the touch comfortable.

“What did you see further down?” Dom asks, and Eames shrugs his shoulders loosely.

“Nothing. Just some rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Just rocks. We could climb them later.”

Dom’s hand moves against Eames’s thigh, pushing at the material of the skirt, where it  covers his knee.

“You think you can rock-climb in this?”

“You could help me.” Eames smiles. He touches Dom’s jaw in Mal’s old, affectionate way, and Dom’s fingers tighten on Eames’s knee.

“This is where we came for our honeymoon,” Dom says.

“How would I forget?”

The sound of the sea is louder now, as though the waves are creeping closer and swallowing up more of the beach while the sun sinks lower. The wind is tossing Eames’s hair across his face. Dom reaches out to brush it aside and then leaves his hand there, his touch cradling Eames’s cheek.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

Eames smiles, close-lipped, feeling some of Mal’s habitual peace settling in his chest. He remembers her so well, her gestures and manners, the way she was at once so expansive, and so self-contained. He remembers her laughing even as she scolded him for his teasing. But most of all, Eames remembers the way that she would fall into Dom’s arms, as though they had been made to hold her, and how watching her in those moments would make Eames come close to believing in love.

As the waves crash behind them, Eames uses Mal’s fingers to tilt Dom’s face to the right angle for a kiss. “But I’m right here,” he says. 

 

\- 6 -

Mal and Eames are both post-grads by the time they meet Dom. They have spent their time at university casually drifting in and out of one another’s beds, although of late, Eames has been coming down far more heavily on a preference for boys and Mal has begun to show signs of longing to settle down.

It is the summer after graduation, unusually hot and balmy for Paris. For a few weeks now there has been talk of taking off down to the South to stay with Marie and Angelo for a while. But this is still just talk, and instead, in celebration of the heat, Mal throws open her parents’ house in the suburbs for a party.

She and Eames slouch together in a corner of the patio, on the floor cushions which have been dragged outside. They share Mal’s menthol cigarettes, and make out lazily, in between bouts of people watching.

This is how Dom finds them, twined too close together, their lips wet with each other’s saliva. He is awkward, tanned, but quite charming when he pretends to have stumbled across them by accident.

“Mal?” he says, as though unsure, pointing the neck of his beer bottle towards her. When she stares back at him blankly, he adds, “Dom Cobb. I work with your father.”

“Of course you do,” Mal says. She makes a weak attempt to push herself up and then abandons that in favour of stretching out a long, graceful arm instead, so that Dom can clasp her hand. “I would kiss you, but it appears I cannot get up,” she smiles.

“That’s alright.”

“Won’t you join us?”

Dom looks around and then drags a metal garden chair noisily across the stone.

“This is my dear friend, Eames,” Mal says, pressing a palm to Eames’s chest, and this is how Dom and Eames first meet, reaching across Mal’s body to shake one another’s hand.

As the evening deepens and darkens, the house gets fuller and more people begin to spill out onto the patio. Together, the three of them hold their corner until the cigarette packet is empty and there is a collection of empty beer bottles beneath Dom’s chair.

“Her hat is quite hideous,” Mal says, pointing to a woman standing by the open doors. Eames looks up and snorts. The hat is indeed ridiculous.

“She probably thinks she looks like Chanel,” he says, taking the bottle which Dom is offering him and bringing it to his lips.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s her first time in Paris. She’s probably trying to fit in,” Dom says.

Mal and Eames exchange glances and then Mal leans forwards and rests a hand on Dom’s knee.

“You are so kind,” she tells him, “I don’t think you belong with us.”

Dom stares down at her hand. His mouth opens and then closes again, invitingly, as though he is not quite sure what to say.

*

Later, when the house is full of moths and mosquitoes, drawn to the lights through the open doors, Eames leaves Mal dancing with Clarice and steps back outside for some fresh air. His forehead and back are prickling with sweat from spinning Mal beneath his arm and lifting Clarice up off her feet. Outside, it is much quieter and the smell of honeysuckle makes the air sweet. Eames accepts a cigarette from a woman he does not know and then wanders into the darkness to smoke it alone, kicking his feet against the stone as he walks.

He finds Dom leaning woozy against the garden wall. He does not move as Eames settles next to him, cigarette in hand. There is a slur in his voice as he says, “You aren’t French.”

Eames blows the smoke in his lungs over his shoulder, away from Dom’s face.

“No, I’m not. Those are some admirable detective skills.”

Eames cannot see Dom’s expression in the darkness, even though he strains to, but the white of Dom’s shirt stands out visible and from the square shape of the shoulders, Eames knows that Dom is facing him. Using that as a starting point, he can visualise the lean lines of Dom’s legs, tapering down from his trim waist. Eames can piece together an image of a heart-shaped face with clear eyes.

The sound of laughter drifts out through the patio doors, over the smooth thump of a muted bassline. Dom stays completely quiet as Eames reaches out, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose, his cheek, before settling at his jaw and drawing him forwards, for a slow kiss. Dom’s lips are dry, a little rough, but they part easily enough, and then his tongue is soft and confident in its movements as though kissing is second nature to him.

Clearly, Dom is a man who has lived his life being nothing but well-loved. He smells homely, like beer and cotton, and his fingers are strong where they grip Eames’s shoulder.

When he pulls away, he rests his hot cheek against Eames’s for a moment. Then, his voice is unsteady, saying, “I should really go,” tugging out of Eames’s grasp, heading back towards the light and the noise of Mal’s house.

*

Eames will remember this kiss for years afterwards, as a point of comparison and an aspirational memory. Yet, only six months later, Dom and Mal are engaged and Eames is back in London, burning through his inheritance and churning out forged paintings just because he can.

 

\- 7 -

Eames has forged women in sexual scenarios before. As a matter of fact, he has forged a lot of different people in a lot of different sexual scenarios. He likes to think that it makes him a much better lover in reality, able to empathise with most anything.

Yet even amongst these hordes of other forgeries, picked up and dropped, passed over, forgotten, Mal still feels special. The way that Dom presses her – Eames – back into the sand is special, weighted with meaning. Dom’s touch is firm and assured as he reaches around to unhook the bra and pull it out of the way, bending to kiss a trail down the smooth length of Eames’s throat and across the soft swells of Eames’s breasts. Mal has always worn Chanel No. 5. - she is too classic for anything else - and now Eames can smell the scent of it, wafting up from his own flesh, which is growing heated and flushed pink by the touch of Dom’s lips.

As Dom’s fingers slip between Eames’s slender thighs, dipping into the wetness there, Eames has to fight an urge to let his disguise drop, and to reach for Dom with his own broad hands. He wants Dom to touch him like this when Eames is himself, all stubble and strong arms and garish tattoos. Eames wants Dom to know he would respond just the same way, even if he were not playing Mal, by spreading his legs to allow Dom inside and dropping his head back, sighing at the unbearable sweetness of Dom’s touch.

But Eames holds it together. His hands stay white and wedding-ring-adorned as he strokes them down Dom’s back, holding him, while Dom’s body rolls in smooth rhythm until there are stars glittering behind Eames’s eyes and Dom’s weight is pressing warm and limp on top of him and all that is left to them is the sound of the churning surf.

 

\- 8 -

They are awake, sitting up, pulling free the lines, and Eames thinks that he catches the glint of tears at the corners of Dom’s eyes. When he reaches a tentative hand to Dom’s shoulder, Dom turns away, scrubbing the tears out with rough knuckles.

“I’m fine,” he says, before Eames even has a chance to ask. He stands up, hands shaking, and heads straight for the front door.

Eames can take a hint. He collects his jacket from the back of the sofa and pulls it on, following. The front door swings open onto the still warmth of a Californian night, black and chirping with crickets. As they stand in the doorway, Dom takes a neat roll of banknotes from his pocket, secured with an elastic band.

“This is what we discussed.”

Eames stares down at the murky, unanimous green of the American dollars and shakes his head. “I won’t, if it’s all the same to you.”

Dom’s face twists into a scowl. He thrusts the bills forwards, trying to force them into Eames’s hand. “Jesus Christ. Just take it,” he snaps.

Eames seizes the fingers, which are tugging at his own and uses the grip to pull Dom closer to him, so that he can slot their lips together.

Perhaps Eames has been spoiled by too much of Arthur, who melts into his every touch, but when Dom goes tense and shies away, Eames’s stomach sinks with a sick disappointment. It is a feeling of disaster the likes of which Eames has not felt since he was a teenager, always trying too hard for things beyond his reach.

“No. That’s not what this is about,” Dom says, licking nervously at his lips.

His eyes are blue and clear, the way they have always been. Eames stares into them and gets confused by what he sees there. He is unable to read Dom’s expression objectively and so is unable to read it at all.

“I see,” he says.

The money is still held out between them and Eames takes it from Dom’s hand, pocketing it on his way out the door.

*

Outside his own house, Eames sits in his car for a long time, even though he can already see Arthur’s waiting on the drive. He longs for a cigarette. The car feels icy from the aircon and underneath the now-familiar scent of re-circulated air, Eames imagines that he can smell faint traces of Chanel No. 5. He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the notion that he could open his mouth now and hear Mal’s beautiful voice trickle right out between his lips.

Eames’s fingers feel clumsy, far too large, working the locks. The house behind the door is silent and still when Eames enters. He knows that Arthur is going to be in a bad mood even before he finds him sitting alone at their kitchen table, with the newspaper spread in front of him. Arthur never reads the paper. He prefers new media. Besides, the only paper in the house is the extortionately expensive copy of _The Times_ which Eames gets delivered every day.

“Where have you been?” Arthur asks, looking up. Eames drops his keys on the counter, deliberately ignoring the hook they belong on, and switches on the second kitchen light, needing the extra bulb to see things more clearly.

“I thought you wouldn’t be back until later,” Eames says, quite calm.

“We had to reschedule. What about you? You had nothing booked tonight.”

Arthur is staring at him in a way that Eames does not appreciate. He crosses to the table and touches Arthur’s chin with one bent knuckle, hating the way that his hand looks all wrong against Arthur’s skin.

“Keeping tabs on me, darling?”

Eames does not try to hide the contempt leaking into his voice; he can’t be bothered to keep it down tonight. He isn’t surprised when Arthur knocks his hand aside and stands up, shouldering past in a sulk.

“I made dinner. Yours is cold now. It’s in the fridge,” Arthur says, pushing Eames’s keys off the counter as he passes, sending them clattering to the floor.

*

In the end, they go to bed, because this is the way that problems with Arthur always get solved. Eames keeps his eyes closed while they fuck, until Arthur tells him to open them, his fingers tight against Eames’s jaw.

“Who are you thinking about?” Arthur asks.

Eames reaches out to run his thumb over the frown line creasing Arthur’s forehead and shoves his hips upwards, watching the way that it makes Arthur’s mouth drop open slackly, and his eyelids flutter closed.

“You,” Eames lies. “I’m thinking of you.”

 


End file.
